


Carry On my Wayward Sourwolf

by Original_Cypher



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, References to Supernatural, tiny glancing reference at TVD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 07:54:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Original_Cypher/pseuds/Original_Cypher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another night of barely surviving a blitz attack. Another time being ambushed with Derek as a sole partner. Another time of the alpha saving his skin from otherworldly creatures.<br/>Fine. Maybe Stiles watches too much tv. But, it's hard not to see parallels with Supernatural. With the leather, the car and the attitude. But then there are blue eyes and dark hair. Stiles doesn't know who to slash anymore.</p><p>***</p><p>No huge spoilers for Teen Wolf. A passing mention to the very ending of S2. Post S2.<br/>No real spoilers for Supernatural. It will help get the references if you know who the basic cast is. Including a regular that came in at the start of S4...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carry On my Wayward Sourwolf

“Derek. Derek! _Dere-hck!!_ ” Stiles is yanked backwards by his throat, and the pain makes his vision swim. Judging by the snarl, his werewolf companion of misfortune has heard him. Stiles holds on to the thought, although he can still hear fighting. Derek is busy not-getting-killed himself and unavailable for an immediate rescue. That's inconvenient.

Stiles takes half a second to wallow in self hatred – he always needs someone to save his sorry ass, dammit – then locks down. He's got this. He can defend his own life, because even if it sucks at times, he _likes_ it. Also, it's the only one he has.

Vampires. They look so cute and cuddly on the CW. Lies! All lies!

He knows he only has a few moments before he passes out, and he prays the army knife he slipped in his back pocket earlier in the night hasn't fallen out during the hike or in the struggle. Oh, he didn't grab it for its potential use as a weapon – because Derek and him were meant to be on a recon mission, getting ambushed without the pack was definitely not part of the plan – but there is always something to pry open, cut or scrape, and Stiles doesn't have fancy claws and superpowers. Tools, snark and deductive skills are pretty much all he can provide.

He would let out a whoop of victory when his fingers close on the knife, but the little air he has his in lungs is being firmly held down by disgusting, wrinkly hands. Over the rushing of blood in his ears, he can hear Derek calling his name. His heel kicks the ground and the vampire chokes him harder.

 _Oh, that's it. That's enough._ In a swift movement he's surprised he manages to pull off, Stiles flips open the knife and stabs it as hard as he can into one of the beast's forearms. He twists the blade viciously, knowing by how deep it sunk that it went between the radius and the ulna. He saw a documentary on the most painful torture techniques once, and he remembered this one. He's willing to admit he's imagined doing it to Harris on several occasions. Who knew being morbidly fascinated by the creepy and holding a grudge against a teacher would save his life one day? Well, for now, anyway.

The result is immediate. The vampire lets out a high-pitched scream – _goodbye, eardrum, we had a good run_ _together_ – and jerks completely off Stiles. The movement is so sudden and uncoordinated that claws cut at his throat and collarbone. Stiles hisses in pain and whips around, knife raised, ready to go down fighting. He's bleeding, he can feel warmth running down his neck, but if anything important had been slashed, he would know.

He glances back to were Derek is fighting two-... scratch that, _an_ other vampire. It's hard to make out what's happening. The thing snarls and shrieks a lot, but Derek's on top. Stiles decides it must be a good sign. His own vampire is glaring daggers at him, cradling its arm against its chest. If Stiles survives, he'll have to remember that move.

Vampires really are monsters. Their skin is the same gray of half dried up, half decomposed remains cops dig up for belated autopsies. Nope, Stiles has never seen any, because he never _ever_ hacked into the station's computer system. They have about as little shriveled up hair as cadavers do. Stiles knows from his research that they aren't, in fact, undead walking corpses but they really do look the part. – They also aren't turned. They're a born, nearly extinct species that cannot make another living being into one of them. 'The Bite' really only belongs to werewolves. – Weren't they stuck in those fugly mugs, their eyes would be beautiful and impressive. They don't have whites, they're all irises full of vibrant colors that couldn't be found in a human eye. But the face without eyebrows or nose, and the mouth that is all lopsided canines completely ruins the picture.

Granted, werewolves can be scary – cue Psycho-Peter, the Alpha Pack, Isaac when Scott got beat unconscious, etc... – and the sideburns can be a little unsexy, but... they're mostly hot. They also never stray far from 'human', in aspect. Stiles has never dared asking Derek's betas what it was that suddenly turned them into prancing models, but he's chalked it up to this: all the turned werewolves he knows were all already good looking prior to getting the bite. He imagines that becoming powerful overnight would legitimately inflate your confidence, and be quite a rush. Plus, knowing the reaction – impressed (Isaac), lust filled (Erica), etc... – you get from people even when they try to mask it would just feed the ego-boost loop. All in all, the alpha bite comes with a makeover. Stiles might be a bit bitter about the whole thing, but he's okay. He's overcome his American Pie-esque obsession for finding a suitor and his friends haven't ditched him because he gets broken bones easily. They even stopped babying him over getting knocked around after he blasted a shell of rock salt at Scott and Isaac out of anger for it once. So, overall, he's cool with being the eternal sidekick. The pack knows they wouldn't survive without him anyway.

Although, tonight might just be the other way around. The vampire he's facing is about to charge and the knife in Stiles hand is just that. A tiny blade against a super-strong hell beast. The books said fire was the go-to weapon, but they don't have the gasoline they bought with them. They're not equipped with anything else that could help. One, because, see above, recon. And two, because Stiles knew how uneasy carrying supplies to set off a fire made Derek, and he didn't even ask before going empty handed on a simple perimeter walk.

Only... ha. Kinda screwed now.

Stiles crouches slightly on his heels to insure his balance as he watches the monster lunge forward. Instead of taking a step forward and meeting the vampire dead on, he feels himself being yanked backwards by his shoulder and slams hard into a tree. Half stunned by the impact, he stares while Derek charges in his place. Stiles slips down the trunk, his shaky legs deciding now is the time for a break.

Derek's arms are covered in blood up to the elbow. From the back, Stiles deduces the front of his shirt must be torn from the way it hangs weirdly to one side. There's a deep gash on his bicep and one of his ears is shredded.

“Oh great. I hadn't made it to the ground yet.” Stiles' natural response to terror is to babble, it's common knowledge. He doesn't clamp his teeth on his usual verbal diarrhea because he knows Derek will hear him. The alpha will then known he's okay without having to look back.

A few feet away from where Stiles is slumped lie the corpses of the two other vamps. Evidence would suggest that beheading kills vampires as well. He should have trusted Joss Whedon's genius. Although these things make The Master look like a GQ model, Derek scratching at their necks until there's nothing left in the way of touching their spine from the front seems to have worked. In doubt, Stiles pushes himself up with a grunt and rams his heel down on the bones repeatedly until heads and bodies are completely separated. And kicks one head away rageously for good measure.

He keeps an eye on Derek, making sure he's got the upper hand still. He's learned that his friend doesn't like him jumping in unless he's dying. He gets it. If he were a werewolf, he'd be worried about the poor lil' human getting in the way and ending up hurt. But it's still annoying, feeling so helpless, useless. At least, Derek indulges him and lets him patch him up after a fight when his wounds are deep enough and take a while to heal, even if it's to keep the bandages a mere half an hour. They've had a lot of that with the Alpha Pack. Good times.

Every time Stiles walks in the downstairs bathroom in his home he's hit with the phantom smell of blood.

He doesn't expect the struggle to last much longer. The vampire, fighting with one arm, is clearly no match for Derek, even if the werewolf himself isn't a hundred percent. The alpha throws his claws forward and the vampires' jaw comes with when he pulls his arm back. Derek glares at it, annoyed, and shakes his hand to dislodge it. Stiles lets out an undignified noise, his face stuck in a grimace of disgust at the sight. He's going to have nightmares about this for weeks.

There's a loud crack that makes Stiles toes curl and echoes in his bones. The vampire slums on the ground like a puppet whose strings were just severed. Derek twists around, facing Stiles for the first time in a while. He's dirty, bloodied and out of breath, with both hands still framing the creature's skull. “Eat it, Twilight,” he spits out, and drops the head. Before it even touches the ground, he's refocused on Stiles completely. “Are you okay?”

Stiles thinks he should be the one asking. If Derek was human, he'd be unconscious from blood loss by now. He knows that super healing doesn't mean werewolves are impervious to pain, and Stiles can see-... oh, god. Derek's _ribs_. He looks back to the alpha's now blue eyes to try to distract himself from the wave of nausea that hits him brutally at the sight. “Did you just quote-...?”

Derek is on him in an instant. For a second, Stiles thinks maybe he's missed another vampire and there's going to be more blood, but the alpha is merely catching him when his knees give. “Stiles!”

Right. Maimed bodies. Adrenaline running out. His balance is being elusive.

“I'm fine.” Stiles slurs,pawing at Derek's shoulder – it's pretty much the only place he's sure isn't wounded. “You heal. I'll feel better,” he manages. “Don't want to see your skeleton. Ever.” He takes one glance at Derek's chest up close and jerks back, afraid he might throw up on his friend. “You're not an arthropod. You're a mammal. Mammals. … It should stay in.” He chokes out. So he's babbling again. At least it's making scientific sense. Derek is by his side, holding him up. His grip is almost painful. Stiles nudges him off. “I'm okay. I'm okay. Fuck...” He hates himself for being so weak. It's only human, he knows. There's only so much one can be expected to take. But still.

Derek's hand is running down the back of his head, squeezing his neck. “I'm fine. Look. I'm healing.” He takes a gentle hold of Stiles' hand and places it on himself and repeats. “Look.”

Stiles swallows and risks a peek. Beneath his fingers, the skin is angry and red, but it's _skin_. Werewolf healing is unbelievable. He feels dizzyingly grateful for it. Derek's shirt doesn't have a front anymore. There's barely anything left hanging bellow the collar. A good chunk of torn off fabric must be lying somewhere around, Stiles thinks. That's when he realizes he's basically feeling up Derek's pecs. He snatches his hand back. He doesn't get to go far, because Derek tuts in annoyance and pulls him back. While Stiles was busy staring at scars and ruined clothes, Derek was doing his own checking up. He's frowning at Stiles' neck and angling his chin up to get a better look at the claw marks. “It's fine, Der. They're just scratches. I don't think it's deep, it stings like a bitch, but it doesn't really _hurt_ , you know?” There's a distinct difference, he's learned over the past few years.

“It's already stopped bleeding.” Derek confirms. “Looks like I'm the one patching you up this time.”

“Nu huh. You get me back to my car and you go home to change. If my dad sees you in that shirt, even fully healed, he'll never let me out of the house again. I told him we were _safe_. I don't want him to reconsider.”

Derek looks torn. Naturally, Stiles knows he's beating himself up for Stiles being in harm's way tonight. The guy thinks its his duty to anticipate every possible thing and protect everyone. He should look up 'unpredictable' sometime, because he seems fuzzy on the concept, not that Stiles would say that out loud. He also knows not to point out that half the time, he's the one saving Derek and his pups' asses. He knows how to protect a big alpha and his pride, too. “Fine.” Derek looks around, finally done with inspecting Stiles for injuries. Stiles mourns the loss of contact. He's pathetic, he knows. “I'll get the others to clean this up and call the Argents to keep them in the loop.” He looks back to Stiles. “You know we're going to have to tellyour dad, right? He asked us to and we promised not to keep anything from him. Chris will mention it anyway.”

Stiles sighs. “Yes, we are. But what we'll be recounting is: we took out vampires. It was planned, organized, no one got hurt and it wasn't even messy.” Stiles gestures. "You know. The Disney version."

Derek's lips quirk. “You should go into public relations or politics.”

“Please. I already _am_. Living in this town between you guys, the Argents, the werejags past Willow Creek and everything else that comes and goes, it's like working for the UN! I'm a freaking diplomat.” Humor is a good sign that Stiles is regaining his grip on himself. Derek shakes his head to hide his amusement and stirs Stiles on the path back to the Camaro. It's a good thing, because if the human had had to guess, he would have gone in a completely different direction.

Derek makes the calls, spends five minutes assuring Isaac that they are both fine, and five gritting his teeth while Scott yells so loudly Stiles can almost make it out. He's not naive enough to think it's about him. Granted, Scott is chewing Derek out for putting him in danger, but only part of it is actual concern for his friend. Most of it is self righteousness. Scott is still adamantly refusing to consider that Derek is a good guy, that, although he fails a lot because he's only human – despite what the alpha would say himself –, is always trying to do the right thing, no matter how misguided or failed the attempt.

As soon as Stiles is reassured that Chris Argent is focused on possible cover stories and isn't about to start threatening the pack again, his thoughts drift off. Unfortunately, they go back to the massacre. It gives Stiles chills. Yup. Definitely nightmares. He wants to scrub the feeling of the shriveled up skin off his own. Wants to drown the smell of it under the tackiest, most artificial soap scent. He wants to erase the supernatural off his skin. – The bad kind. Or is it that werewolves have simply become _natural_ to him? – He resists the urge to crowd against Derek, to look around and make sure nothing is creeping into the darkness. The night has begun to fall.

Joy.

Stiles startles when Derek's hand makes a return appearance on the back of his neck. Oops. His heartbeat must have showed signs of panic again if the guy noticed. Glancing at him confirms Stiles has spaced out long enough for the werewolf to be off the phone. He gives him a nod of reassurance. Derek doesn't push. He gives one last squeeze and lets go.

This, precisely, is what makes him the alpha that he is. He knows when to ground. When to give space. And to never mention it.

Stiles mind goes back over Derek's last kill. He can't get the image of the man shaking putrid vampire jaw off his hand. Ew. And then he... And then he... “Were you quoting Supernatural?”

Derek gives him a look that answers his question. Stiles knows Derek is familiar with the show. They've watched it together on occasion. And 'together' includes _everyone_. As a group. Some of them like it, some, like Stiles, Scott, Isaac or Lydia, are die hard fans. The guys are hot, the music is awesome, and even though they're hunters, their lives have a lot of similarities with the pack's. Yet, the alpha doesn't know what, specifically, Stiles is referring to.

“Oh my Winchester! You are so Dean!” he blurts out. Derek literally quoted the eldest Winchester. Except that came up to him on its own.

Derek grits his teeth. “I am not.”

“Dude! Come on... 'family doesn't end with blood' is the _definition_ of 'pack'! Care to shrug on your leather, take me back to your black muscle car and drive us off into the (k)night with an oldies soundtrack?! Yeah, you are.” Stiles suddenly feels gleeful.

Derek levels him with a heated glare. “I am not a hunter!”

“You chase bad things away. You save the innocent. You're tortured by your past and mistakes you made. Your family feels are pretty much all _loss_. Also... house fires. And you're cocky, and flirty, despite the fact that most of the time, you're pretty much winging it. You're it. Face it, Dean-o.”

Derek lets out a sigh. Stiles loves and hates those. They mean Derek is conceding victory, ergo Stiles wins. But then Derek still doesn't agree, so it's a meaningless victory. “So, what does that make you? Too clever for your own good, bookish. Geeky. Compulsive need to _talk_. Are you Sam?”

Stiles gapes and makes a weird sound. Well of course, Derek wouldn't know how if that were true, there would be major wincest going on. As much as Stiles appreciate the beauty that is J2, since Castiel came on... he's much more into interspecies than wincest and- oh my _god_ , he shouldn't be thinking about these words right now. “Uh...” he says when he recovers. “Okay, thanks for comparing me to the second hottest guy on the cast, but... I'm not your brother.”

Derek snorts, apparently unaware of Stiles' inner turmoil. “Second hottest? Dean boy, uh. Or is it Jensen?”

“Nope.” Ackles is hot, granted. Blazing. But Padalecki's so much _larger_. And he's got this fierce, wild, _animal_ side to him – just look at his Ruby sex scenes, they're better than porn. And again with the animal kink! Put him in a straight jacket already. “I'm a minion.” He knows Derek will get the reference because Stiles has made him sit through youtube videos of convention highlights. Like the 'sign my shirt' one. He knows Derek knows Castiel as well as Misha. “Cas is my thing. I might be a bit Dean too, after all.”

“Oh, Awkward Featherboy. Yeah.” Derek smirks, then pokes at Stiles' shoulder. “Hey, I get it. Dark hair, blue eyes, eternal sex hair, cocky attitude on stage from the actor. What's not to love?”

Stiles is grateful that his mere human reflex work, or else he would have face planted on the spot and his tripping would be even more humiliating. Barely, though. Derek is staring at him like he just figured out something, and Stiles' heartbeat speeds right up to panic mode. “I, uh... I was kidding.”

“Great.” His chest suddenly hurts, like the air has been punched out of it.

“Stiles..." Derek is looking at him. Stiles isn't sure he's seen those eyebrows before – those things are like road signs, Stiles has a lot of them memorized and categorized. There's a tiny confused fold in the middle of Derek's forehead and his eyes look almost pained. "Do you _like_ me?”

It takes a second for Stiles to stop staring at him like an idiot. Honestly?! Derek didn't know?! He's tempted to go with a 'duh, you idiot!' just for the hell of it. He always assumed the alpha pretended to be oblivious for the sake of Stiles' pride. He hakes his head. “I'm not answering that.”

Derek looks mildly scandalized. “Why not?!”

“Because it's unfair. I can't lie, or you'll know. So... handle it like a normal human being. Live in doubt, I'm not answering.” It doesn't take a sourwolf to realize that this, in itself, is an answer.

“Stiles...” If Stiles wasn't already feeling so bad for himself and the whole evening altogether, he would want to hug Derek right now. He's never seen the alpha look so confused and just plain _lost_ before.

He huffs. He's had enough to deal with for the night. So instead of facing anymore humiliation, he turns on his heels and starts walking. “Just... drive me back to my car. Let me go home and drown myself in the tub.” Derek grabs his arm, and for a frightening second Stiles thinks he's going to yank him to a stop, demand Stiles elaborates. In the end, Derek must be still winded by the realization, because all he does is stir Stiles so he's going in the right direction again and lets go.

They trek in silence. It should probably be uncomfortable, but they're both too exhausted for it. Stiles miraculously manages to avoid tripping over something. He keeps wrangling his mind back from thinking about the sensation of vampire breath hitting the back of his neck, the noise they make when they die, or the feel of a spine breaking under his heel. He succeeds somewhat, casting away the ideas as soon as they form in his mind. He glares at the dry leaves crunching under his feet instead. His heart is beating painful and shocked still. This time Derek doesn't reach out.

Stiles is too absorbed is his anger at himself for nerves. Yet, when, after barely a minute, he spots the car, a wave of relief crashes on him. Derek must sense it, because he casts a glance his way. Stiles refuses to look back. If there is _one time_ he doesn't want to puzzle out the mystery that are Derek Hale and his goddamn face, it's _now_. All he wants is to escape and let the werewolf digest the big news. He'll probably spend his time from now to the next time they see each other silently praying for the alpha to chose to pretend he forgot about this part of the night.

Stiles grits his teeth. Dammit. He belatedly realized that getting to his car means climbing into Derek's first. Granted, Derek's walking by his side now, and they're just as close as they would be, sitting in the Camaro, but somehow, enclosed feels claustrophobic in anticipation. Suffocating already.

He's faced more dangerous situations. Today alone. He steels himself, takes one last step forward and reaches for the door handle.

He never gets there.

“No.” Derek's grip is like a shackle around his wrist. And yay, what normal teenager would have actual sense memory of what shackles feel like? And not for sexy times, either.

Derek tugs, gentle, and Stiles can't do anything but turn around to face him. So, they're not ignoring it, then. Awesome. Defeated, he goes lax against the car door and swallows thickly before he meets Derek's eye. “Why would you even-... Why?”

This is the night they spring shock on each other apparently, because Stiles feels like gaping all over again. “Are you seriously trying to say what I think you are?” he asks, bemused. “Are you _really_ asking me why anyone would even like you?”

Derek looks away.

“Oh, my god, you are _ridiculous_!” It's true! It's may not be a very nice wording, but it's true. “Derek! Look at me.” Maybe it was Derek's plan all along. Because when Stiles gets involved in something like making a point, he starts ranting and he can't be stopped. He knows it, even as the words start building. He knows he's going to spill his guts and he can't find the strength to do anything about it. “I know you know you're hot,” Stiles states. “And I know that's not what you're asking, so I'll just skip that part.” There's a weird mix of self consciousness, shame and pride on Derek's face. “The thing is... Dude, I _know_ you.” Stiles admits. And really, it's the gist of it. “I've known you for, what? A little more than two years now. I know who you _are_. Because, somehow... I'm irresistible and you didn't have a choice but to let me in.” He smirks, all fake bravado and, well... it's kind of true. It's a little funny, even though he still can't believe how he pulled it off. Derek's eyes crinkle a little bit, even though his eyebrows try to say _Lie!_. Stiles presses a hand to his own chest. “I know, I know, it's all those times saving each others lives, it's just... A special bond, you and me.” He quips, and now Derek is torn between smirking and outward glaring – as if that even worked anymore. Stiles sighs, and know the rest is going to be painful for both of them. “Look, I know you think putting up this facade of the tough leather guy with a scowl is protecting you. And maybe it is. But it's also protecting you from people knowing you. Like _really_ knowing. Like how we, the pack and I, know that you keep tiny marshmallows in the back of the cupboard for when it's stormy to put in your hot cocoa like your mom used to do when you got scared as a kid. And it's not because you're still scared, cause you're a big boy now, but because the ritual makes you think of how your mom used to rock you to sleep afterward. Like... how you love baseball and have always been pissed that you couldn't play professionally because you're super strong and your blood tests would be off. How you bitched about _flowers_ in your backyard when Erica, Boyd and Lydia planted the stuff, but you secretly sneak out sometimes to admire the rose bush because Laura would have loved it. How you like black mugs because it gives a stark contrast to milk. And _yes_ , I know you're the one who drinks it! How you love bacon and pineapple on your pizza even though it's weird and you must be an alien.” Derek chuckles while Stiles catches his breath. He looks touched, more lost that he was earlier, and Stiles just. Can't. Stop. “How the first aid kit in the trunk of your car is for _me_ , because wolves heal and I'm the only human around dumb enough to jump in the crossfire. How Isaac's first leather jacket is an old one of yours you've outgrown. How you grew up wanting to be in a band and you dressed like Van Halen for junior prom. How every time someone brings real bread from a bakery, the first thing you do is crack it open and stick your nose in it. How you sometimes sneak burgers and fries to my dad and you both think I don't know.” Derek's eyes widen even more, and he looks away quickly. Stiles shakes his head. His voice is even softer now. “How you have a soft spot for Isaac. How you love him so much and can't bring yourself to let him know, to admit that he feels like another little brother, and yet... every time he flinches when a loud noise startles him, so do you.” Derek swallows. “How you bring back Erica's favorite candy every time you go-...”

“How do you know all that?” Derek's head is lowered, and he's speaking quietly, staring at Stiles' shoes. Somehow it's enough to stop the momentum.

Stiles scuffs his sneakers together. “You told me some of it. Some of it I just saw.” He presses his lips together. “I _told you_. It's been _two years_ , Derek. I know you. You let me in. You let us all in, and we all love you. And maybe it scares the shit out of you right now, now that you know, but _please_ don't shut that door.” He gives Derek a small smile when he finds the wolf has looked up again. He knows Derek can hear the truth in his words, how affected he is by what he's saying. “You wanted to know why people would like you? That's why. Because you're a really cool person to get to know. And it took me months to work my way in, but I'm glad I'm a stubborn fucker, because if it hadn't been for me, there wouldn't have been Scott, and there wouldn't have been all this. And all of us would be missing out on a great thing.”

“I know.” Derek stares at him. “I jus-... I never thought you did.”

Stiles shrugs. “It's my superpower. I'm easily overlooked.”

“No.” Derek says, coming closer. “No, you're not.” Suddenly there are fingers sliding in Stiles' hair, and thumbs grazing his cheekbones and Derek's lips are on his.

If this isn't the result of Stiles dying of stress or at the hand of a vampire and going to heaven – weird, emotionally awkward heaven, at first, though –, he's pretty sure he's going to keel over by smooch-induced heart attack soon. In comparison, it's totally the way to go. His breath is caught painfully in his chest, and his heart is trying to jackhammer its way out of there, but Derek's... Derek's kissing him. He almost chokes when he realizes he's gripped back in surprise, and that his hands are resting on the man's waist, bare hips under his palms. Right. Because: destroyed shirt. _Holy blonde cheerleader batman!_

He's no blushing virgin – he totally is – and as soon as he gets a grip and is sure Derek didn't just have a stroke, that he's actually meant to do this, he tries to give back as good as he gets. But then Derek goes and nudges their jaws open. Lips part and tongues meet. Stiles shudders and has to catch himself because his knees wobble. Even like this, a relatively tame contact, it's the first time he ever gets to touch a man that way. Derek's skin is hot under his hands. He hasn't moved them, but his hold is firm and he can feel the give of the flesh, the resistance of the muscle, the jut of the pelvis.

He blinks stupidly when the kiss abruptly stops and finds that Derek has kept his eyes closed. It's mesmerizing, the look of him, just holding on to Stiles, expression open, licking his lips and... Fuck. He's actually _enjoyed_ this.

“This okay?” Derek breathes eventually, blue irises suddenly startling against dark lashes.

It's probably to be polite. To make completely sure. Because evidence has proven Derek can be thick, but he _cannot_ have missed how on board with this Stiles is. Right? Reluctantly, Stiles lets go of his previous hold. He reaches up, grasping at Derek's ruin of a shirt around his neck and pulls him back down. If Derek is expecting him to be able to form words and string them together to make any kind of sense after something like that, he's delusional.

The werewolf seems happy to skip the small talk – there has truly been too many personal words exchanged tonight. Now that he seems sure that Stiles is just as keenas he is, Derek lets his hands wander. They slip away from Stiles' neck and grip his shoulders, slide into his hair, trail over his chest. Tug him closer. Stiles can't help the way he pushes into him even as he's being crowded against the car hungrily. Derek groans when Stiles inadvertently tugs a little too hard at his hair, and the kiss turns downright _filthy_. He's experienced the alpha being assertive before, this is definitely the best example yet.

“ _Fuck_ , Stiles. Always so-...” Derek trails off in a whine, opening his mouth wide against Stiles neck.

Stiles is only human. Furthermore, an eighteen year old with a healthy libido and absolutely no sexual life involving more than one person. When Derek presses in, shifts and in a swift use of werewolf strength hikes him up on the hood of the Camaro, Stiles is assaulted by several thoughts in a moment of absolute physical clarity.

One, there's a chance he might explode from lust and die, right now, and he's totally okay with that. Two, while he was busy _seeing_ Derek, he might have missed a few things. Like how the alpha seems unable to get enough off _touching_ Stiles, hands roaming and mapping restlessly. When Stiles pulls away to drag in lungfuls of air, curses and hisses out Derek's name, the werewolf's eyes flash red and he keens, pressing closer and resting their foreheads together. That kind of leads to three, Stiles may possibly get laid sometime soon. Maybe tonight, judging by the way Derek is palming his way up Stiles' thighs, all shaky restrain and ravenous nips at his jawline.

“...shouldn't be doing this.” Derek rushes before he starts mouthing down Stiles' neck. Then he pulls back when he feels the human tense with hurt and disappointment. “Wow, hey...” he gently nudges his nose against Stiles' – because he's a big dorky wolfman. “We should definitely be doing this. I meant... not here. Also, not now.”

“Oh, right. The others are coming.” Stiles swallows and lets his eyes flick between his hand on Derek's chest – it looks much better now, all smooth, tasty looking skin instead of gore and bone –, Derek's spit slick lips and his eyes, blown wide and focused on him with an intensity he's never felt before. Derek takes a deep breath and leans back, scratching at his neck for a distraction. He frowns and wraps a clawed hand around the collar of his shirt, rips it then shrugs off the ruined garment like one would a button-down. Stiles is physically incapable of letting him step back further. Instead, he hooks his ankle behind Derek's thigh and tugs him back, meeting his eyes with a coy smirk. “I'm sure they'll be a while.” Derek groans. He tries to pass it as exasperation but his smile before he slips his hands back under Stiles' tee says he agrees wholeheartedly.

Stiles melts back into him with delectation, letting his hands map their way up Derek's sides, over his chest. He squeezes one arm, slides his palm behind Derek's neck and arches up. The alpha is _right there_ , half naked and offered. Padalecki just lost a competition he was never going to win. Stiles moans, licking into Derek's mouth and he knows what his dreams will taste like for the rest of his life. They will feel like Derek's iron grip on his waist, the flutter of his finger at Stiles' neck, the tickle-scratch of stubble against his chin, the way Derek shivers when caresses on his back turn into nails. They will sound like the way Derek hums when Stiles' thumb catches his nipple.

To his defense, Stiles isn't _thinking_ it, his brain is pretty much broken at this point. He just does it. He's chasing Derek's tongue, marveling at the quiet little huffed noises he can elicit out of the wolf, tugging, grasping, and then... his hands wander downwards. They're making out! Palming Derek's butt isn't an absurd thing to do in such circumstances.

Derek shudders against him, a broken sound escaping into Stiles' mouth and his hands tighten on Stiles, pulling him in. Stiles cringes at the sound. The rivets on the back-pockets of his jeans drag on the metal with a squeak that would probably make Jackson pass out from outrage. They surely did a number on the paint job. “Fuck, let me-...” Stiles feels behind him, breaks the kiss to assess the damage before he has to look at Derek glaring at him for hurting his precious car.

But Derek tugs his chin back and claims his lips once more. “Don't care,” he mumbles, one very distracting hand making its way up Stiles' thigh.

“Seriousl-...” Stiles tries to turn away again. Derek is definitely glaring now.

“It's a _car_ , Stiles.” The werewolf yanks him closer still, all the way to the edge of the hood, bringing their jean clad erections together. Stiles mewls, flooded by relief and _too much_. The feeling of their tangled bodies is glorious and really promissing. Derek growls approvingly, and Stiles shudders, rocking back instinctively.

“Oh, god!” Stiles lets out when Derek bites at his neck. “I take back what I said...” he pants, head spinning with the notion that he has a handful of Derek's ass and an eager werewolf rutting against him. “You are so not Dean.”


End file.
